Belly of the Beast
by winsomewinter
Summary: It creeps ever closer. Lurking always at the edges of your vision. No sound but quiet growls. You'll never see it flex it's claws, but by god you'll feel the bite. Tearing through you gut, bending you double, teeth grit, back arced, hands reaching weakly for relief where there is none. For this is Panem, and hunger is not just a monster. It's a game. (1st Hunger Games SYOT - Open!)
1. The Woman in the Cellar

Whitewashed shelves rimmed the pantry like a rib cage picked clean by carrion. Along the floor, drawers gaped wide, lolling tongues holding nothing but mockery. More than one were crooked, off the rails. Their old tenants, saucers and teacups and fine sets of china, littered the floor in shards. Beneath a single, naked bulb, glass dust sparkled on the dirt-caked floor.

It was here that she sat. Here that humanity made its final stand. For there was no one left in this world, she was certain, except for her, her baby, and the beast.

Her voice was soft and cooing as she cradled the child close, trying to make him suckle. Her gaze, though, were focused on the door, as much as their heavy lids would allow. Plain, pale wood swam woozily before her; she shook her head, narrowed her eyes, tried to zero in on the knob. Waiting for it to rattle. For the panels to crack. For the beast to force its way through.

"Shh," she told the child, though he made not a sound. "Shh."

This creature, it was a tricky thing. Slippery. Invisible, spotted only in the shadows at the edges of her vision. It made no sound but quiet growls, yet she felt them in her bones. She'd never seen him flex his claws, but by god she'd felt their bite. Tearing through her gut, bending her double, teeth grit, back arced, hands reaching weakly for relief where there was none. The pain became a constant wave of dull and sharp, bearable in the ebbing moments so long as she didn't move much. A trap, she knew; the beast wished only to weaken her before its final strike.

To think she'd once thought the pantry a haven. Well-stocked, underground, away from bombs and tanks, because hadn't it been simple men that were the enemy? She'd seen their faces on the television, dirty, ugly humans who were no threat, _no threat at all, don't worry about the railways, they can't cut us off completely, but stay inside just in case they get any ideas, just in case they try to invade_.

They never would have made it, of course. Not _them. _But her husband had left to fend them off anyways, the draft practically a vacation, _it'll be a week tops. _He'd laughed, and she'd laughed, and the TV reporter had laughed, the day before the screen had cut to static.

No reports now. No way to tell the time. Perhaps it had only been a week. Perhaps her husband would return victorious.

It no longer mattered if they had made it to the city. The beast had. And it remained.

The light flickered. A low snarl rose from the quavering shadows. She clutched her child so tight, she felt the outline of his jaw against her breastbone.

Pregnancy was a passing memory, a dream in which she'd once been plump and joyful and full in the belly. Husband at her side, kissing her bare shoulders, the bathroom mirror before them ripe with the promise of family. She'd take it back in an instant, even the mood swings, the sore backs, the cravings. Oh god, how she'd yearned for butterscotch ice cream. Soft pretzels dipped in honey. Tuna salad and pickles, spoonfuls of peanut butter, anchovies, feta cheese, onion rings—

She tasted blood. On her teeth, drooling down her chin. She'd bit her lip. And chewed. She was still chewing.

She fought to stop, more of a struggle than she'd hoped. For good measure, she turned and spat, despite the protests from her desiccated lips. A fleck of red went wide, landed on her baby's waxen forehead. "Shh," she said, wiping it off with her thumb, even though he didn't cry.

Which she suddenly realised was odd, because she couldn't remember a time he had ever not been crying. When they ran out of food, when they ran out of diapers. All day, all night, shrill wails bouncing off the walls. She'd tried to quiet him, to make him see he was only feeding the beast, but he was a baby. What could he do but eat, and cry, and eat, even as her flesh withered and her milk curdled and she had _no more _to give.

She looked down at her chest. Her shirt, gossamer thread as had been the style, had long since worn to nothing. She could see every inch of her hideous body, bright red sores, bones straining against grey skin, a shallow cavity running from her collarbone to belly button. The breasts from which she'd been trying to feed her child were wrinkled, sagging, barely present. She tried to remember her beautiful, glowing pregnancy, but the only memory playing was that of her son sucking her dry. And the moment when, realising there was no more, the ungrateful brat had bit her.

"He got to you." She frowned down at her son, eyebrows raised, the sickly sweet scold of a disappointed parent. "You let him get to you." Yes, she'd felt the beast in his bite, heard its bellow amidst his shrieks. It would have consume both of them if she hadn't stopped it. She'd _had_ to stop it.

"I had to." Her eyes fell on the nearest drawer. She'd been using it as a crib; it still had a blanket inside. The one she'd used to muffle the beast. Except its roars still tore through her skull, so she'd slammed the drawer closed and sat against it, holding the foul creature back until she could hear it no longer.

Only then had she pulled the baby out. He'd been quiet too, and she'd smiled, because she had finally freed him.

She didn't smile now. Lucidity struck like lightning through the clouds. Her eyes, newly wide, roamed the thing in her arms. Not a "he" no longer, for this was not her son. It was a carcass.

She shuddered. Choked. Threw back her head, banging it against the empty pantry shelf, and howled.

Her throat tore from the strain of two voices, for in each sob echoed gravelly laughter. It was inside her; it _was_ her. The beast had swallowed her whole, had consumed everything. Her home, her husband, her... oh god, oh god, it had taken her _child_.

There had been no need for an invasion. The world had been reduced to a five-foot by five-foot pantry, and she was its sole survivor. But she could not fight; she could not stand. All that life promised was a few last, crawling hours as her mind became an animal and her body shriveled into nothing. Completely and utterly alone.

_. . . No, _she thought.

_No, _she thought again. Same word, different tone—horror-struck, a response to the first.

But already her eyes were moving back to the fresh corpse in her arms. More crimson drool dripped across its face.

Then she saw no more, for her last light shivered, popped, and finally went out.

In the dark, the beast released a gentle purr.

_No, I'm not alone._

* * *

_Hello to everyone! Or at least the people who managed to stick around after that super dark prologue. Welcome to a SYOT of the 1st Hunger Games - because I'm sure that hasn't bee done before._

_Regardless, I am _stoked _to write this. This is kind of a training exercise for me to improve my skills as far as writing goes, particularly with creating mood and atmosphere and those gosh-darn descriptions. So any feedback is very much appreciated! _

_And of course, tributes are too! Form's on my profile, you know the drill. If it looks a little different, it's 'cause this is a little different, and also I just like to shake things up. Any questions, shoot me a PM!_

_And, uh, that's all! Thanks for reading, hope I didn't scare too many of you off with this chapter!_


	2. The Man in the Cell

A lone figure crossed the parched and pockmarked landscape, black silhouette stark against the smoke-grey sky. The clouds never left Panem now, though neither did it ever rain.

_Fuck_, he was thirsty.

His head pounded. Throat cracked. Skin white and flaking at the seams. His canteen, bone-dry, banged against his hip with every other step. More than once, he'd thrown it away, only to skitter after it on all fours, madly searching through the dirt. As though in their short time apart, it had miraculously filled. The crushing realisation that it hadn't was almost enough to keep him down. But then thirst scraped his nerves, and he continued on.

_The light, _he thought. _The light, the light, the light._

In his hands, he kept his rifle, finger never far from the trigger. Wishful thinking. There was no one left alive across the mountain slope, though he'd stepped over more corpses then men he'd ever met in person. Wasn't the same though, shooting a dead body. Pointless too, come to think of it.

_The light. The light._

They'd run out of people back home as well, at least those he could see. He'd banged on doors, even knocked a few down, _"Official war business, open up!"_ That was all he'd been able to say—he had no memory of his name, his rank, hell what side he was even on. He just needed someone to . . . someone to do something. His blood had been up. It was always up, now.

Whether there was anyone left or not, he hadn't been able to find them. His walkie was dead too, and no phones with the power down. His feet had itched, they _always_ itched, dragging him back and forth across the village until he finally picked a direction. Into the valley, where no doubt more ghost towns waited. Or over the mountains.

He had vague memories of the land beyond (at least he thought he did, couldn't sort shit from piss with this damnable thirst). There was something there, at least, he figured. Echoes of gossip from the villagers, back when there had been villagers, wormed their way into his every thought. _Monsters_, they'd said, _that was where the monsters lived._

Well, that suited him just fine.

He'd set off up the mountain, to scout (right? That was what he'd used to do? Scout?). There was no path thanks to a bunch of big fucking rockslides, and crevices, and cliffs, and he'd nearly died a whole handful of times, but what was life if not nearly dying? Point was, he'd made it over the ridge, and that night he'd surfaced, he'd never forget.

The land beyond had been darkness, a tide of shadow. Except for one tiny pinprick, like a lighthouse on a foggy night. Faint, flickering, but undoubtedly a light.

And that meant people.

_The light. Keep heading for the light._

He clambered over a boulder in his path, slid down between two halves of what might have once been a whole skeleton. The destruction on the mountain slope had been absolute, not a thing left living—plant, animal, or man. It was a canvas of blacks and browns, broken occasionally by a rust red smear or hint of white bone. In his stained uniform, he didn't stand out much, except that he still moved and breathed.

"Morons," he said, though his throat was so dry he could only whisper hints of words. He kicked aside a severed arm strewn across his path. "Fucking morons. 'Course there were fucking bombs. Shoulda gone under."

They'd already had tunnels, after all. He knew it because the village he'd been in, it had been a mining town. He'd passed the entrance shaft on his way up the mountains. Even thought about taking it, going through the rock instead of over, just to prove he could succeed where no one else had.

But in the dark, he saw . . . he heard . . .

_The cell. The screams._

_Shit. Fuck. Shut up. The light. __Focus on the light._

He sought to bolt the floodgates of his mind, but leaks sprung through, one by one, no matter how hard he grit his teeth and clenched his gun.

_Trapped. Hungry. Hurt._

Oh, but _they_ didn't hurt him, of course. _They _were above that, or so they never failed to point out. He was the monster, even though he hadn't even completed one mission, barely had a rank, and he didn't known anything, he fucking _swore _he didn't know anything. It didn't matter; somebody did, and they would wait until he and his squadron beat it out of each other.

_So dark. Starving. Agony. Just tell them. Just tell them!_

They'd wanted a monster. And he'd finally delivered.

_Fat lot of good that did, _he thought, mouth curling reflexively into a sneer as he booted a rotting skull away, though his heart felt nothing. No point kicking the dead while they're down. Nowhere near the same as having a live throat beneath your foot, fighting to keep it in place, erratic pulse reverberating all the way up your leg. Nothing was the same as that.

And that was all for nothing. When he'd finally come up with the information they'd sought, the weakness in the city's defenses, they'd used it to plan their assault. And here they all were now. Littering the mountainside. Trash thrown to the breeze.

That had been the plan, he'd come to realise. They'd fed his squad false information and prayed for them to fail. So that they would launch this attack, and then they could take them down. Not the same _they_, though. The other they. He couldn't remember names anymore, but there was . . . there was a difference.

Ah, fuck it. Semantics. No one left to give a shit.

Except just then, his radio crackled.

He froze. Stock still amongst the prostrate bodies.

Imagination. His imagination.

But the static remained. Tickling his ear. And then, through it all, a voice.

"Panem."

He dropped to his knees. Hands trembling on his gun.

There was someone left.

"Hello, Panem," the miracle voice said. "Hello from the Capitol."

The voice was soft behind the scratchy radio. High-pitched, slightly nasal. Familiar. Not like any voice he'd heard in a long time.

"You sought to ruin us," it said. "You cut us off from the world. But you forgot who brought this world into being. A child cannot disown its mother."

The quality wavered in and out, an occasional word lost. He should unclip his radio, hold it closer to his ear, and yet he remained with his face to the sky, rapturous, like the voice came from the clouds. Arms extended, gun out, not so much a threat as an offering.

"When you sought to soil our city, we brought the heavens crashing down upon you. Have you heard the stories? Of the Capitol's great, red rain?"

He had. Some survivors had made it back to the camp, all of them shattered, in pieces. He'd sat alone in his cell and strained to hear the cries one floor up. Had even whittled a hole into the crumbling concrete with a broken piece of bone so that the sounds might flow more freely.

"Flying monsters," they'd cried.

"Swallowed the sun—"

"Explosions, I can still hear, why can I still hear—"

"—there was so much _blood_."

He'd been surprised how desperately he clung to the words, how much he yearned to hear more. All the more surprised when he'd looked at the bone chisel in his hand and realised he had a way out.

The wounded men had not had much left to give when he'd gotten to them, but he had gorged on what stories and screams he could get, and it had sated him. For a time. But then the itch had returned, stronger than before, and it hadn't left him since.

"Well, Panem," said the voice on the radio. "Prepare yourself."

His skin prickled. But for once, he didn't feel like clawing out his veins and muscles. These were goosebumps. This was _euphoric_.

"For you have seen no storm like that which comes next."

The radio clicked off. The breath he had been holding released in one soft gasp.

He rose from the ground. Dusted his pants off; a proud soldier looks the part, that's what his superior had always said. He'd respected the man, truly—he still carried his last gift: his broken humerus. Though the officer had been anything but.

Hah.

With a grin that, this time, reached his eyes, he turned back the way he came. Oh, he'd make it to the light eventually. But he wanted to see this storm, and it would not hit there.

He marched back up the slope with new purpose as thunder growled above him. And finally, finally, the clouds released their rain.

* * *

_Hello! Back again with another prologue. I had this one already written up, so head's up, updates might slow down a little bit after this depending on work and such, but I'm hoping to keep up something of a regular schedule._

_Thanks so much for the kind words and the tributes submitted so far! They've been awesome and I'm super stoked to start writing for them. Lots of spots still open, so if you haven't yet, feel free to submit! And as always, feedback is much appreciated. _

_Thanks a ton everyone, and see ("see") you next chapter!_


	3. The District that Fell

They were heroes. Once.

In the Wars of Unity, they had been the last to hold out. Only on their terms had they accepted the collective of Panem. This spirit had earned them respect, admiration, even reverence. The Capitol wished to be the head of the family, but they, despite their youth, had become something of a wise old grandparent. Often quiet, content to watch, but always heeded when they spoke.

At first, those moments had been few and far between. They were logical, controlled; even they could see that everyone was doing their best. The world had been ravaged, of course restoration would not go smoothly. For the most part, they kept the leash loose, stepping in only when history was in danger of repeating.

But decades passed. Life, or something like it, had resumed. No more excuses. So they took a firmer approach. The guiding hand became a fist. Out of necessity, of course. Order was needed. Yes, in an ideal world, everyone could do what they pleased, but this world was not ideal, and it never would be without hard work.

The Capitol had done the job of dividing up the country. They simply gave each piece meaning. Every gear a small, separate task to keep humanity afloat. Some would tend the food, some the energy, the infrastructure, and after an intense round of lobbying, they even allowed one district to take over "luxury" products. Frivolities, they personally thought, but it pleased the rest of the country to think society had returned to an age of glamour.

The one place they would not bow, however, was the weapons. "History will repeat," they said. "Look what nukes did the first time."

But there were still remnants of those ancient, bloody days. Radioactive material cannot be so carelessly discarded. So they amassed it all in their own land, for only they knew how to properly control it. They thought it was a favour to the rest, putting themselves in harm's way as they did.

The Capitol did not see it in that manner, even though they had been given leadership of the country (one should always keep one's government and military separate, it was only logical). Mistrust spread, then open hostility. Demands were made to know what they were doing with their arsenal, which was preposterous. If they revealed the location of their facilities, then those places might become targets. And if they revealed the contents of their experiments, then such findings could be abused. Of course their science was in the interest of nuclear energy, not nuclear destruction, but those two paths started on the same road, and the rest of the country would just have to trust that they would steer in the right direction.

"Trust" was not a word much used in Panem. The Capitol cracked down, and they retaliated. They had less numbers, but that soon was solved. No one would follow a politician shouting orders from an ivory tower, but everyone respected the man on the ground with a gun in his hands. As support grew, their fight became a vehicle driven by every district's petty grievances. And what did it matter if they weren't aligned ideologically? They had a common enemy.

At some point, the fight became a war. At what point exactly was hard to say. When protests ended in gunfire? When bomb threats began playing on the radio? Or perhaps when it stopped being about laws and ideals and rights and simply became about killing each other.

The end of the war was far easier to pinpoint. The average citizen would not know it certainly, but they did. It was the day the Capitol made their own nukes known. July 22nd, Year 75, 10:04am.

Not that it mattered anymore. No historian would ever chronologise a timeline. History had been banned, all traces erased. The Capitol would let it control them no longer.

And they, they had agreed to it. To forgo the past in the interest of the future. To wipe the last speck of the old world from the map: themselves.

Ironically, it was to prevent a return to times past. For the only other option was a nuclear holocaust, and no matter the Capitol's distaste for history, those consequences could not be ignored.

So they agreed to negotiate. And finally, to a deal. To end, the war needed two things: a victor, and a scapegoat. The Capitol would provide one, and they, the other. Under a hail of harmless "bombings," they dug deep beneath the mountains and made their retreat. Underground, into darkness, they disappeared. From the past, present, and future.

And though they would not admit it, they were perhaps a touch relieved that Panem's problems were no longer their own.

They were District 13. Their actions had perhaps just saved the world. But they had doomed a country, and its children, to horrors beyond measure.

* * *

_Hello again!_

_Short chapter this time around - I wasn't going to do another prologue, but I don't feel I have quite enough tributes yet to launch into their stories. I'm hoping to do about 4 POVs a chapter, with each tribute getting 2 POVs before the Games, so 12 chapters before we hit the arena. Of course, the contents of those chapters aren't exactly going to be your typical pre-Games fare, since, you know, Panem kinda sucks right now (I mean it sucks all the time, but it really, REALLY sucks right now). _

_So yes, that's the plan! Not set in stone, feel free to speak up if you hate it. It's been a long, long time since I tried one of these, so I'm open to options._

_"See" ya!_


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